


Danny

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Lolita AU, M/M, O, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, pedophilic thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 19:51:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Danny, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Dan-ny, the tip of my tongue meeting the syllables with a splash of my tongue, Daan-nny, melting like a sugar cube.He was Bear in the mornings, standing 5 feet 3 with bleary eyes and his teddy. He was Daniel on the dotted line. He was Howell at school for the teachers, and Dan for his friends. But in my arms he was always Danny.





	Danny

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Lolita Phan AU, if you are not familiar with the novel is about a 30 something man who has liked small girls all his life. In this AU it is boys, and i aged a little the range, since otherwise it even squiked me out. If any of this is not of your liking feel free to go back.
> 
> I took in many parts the original writing, i do not claim to have written the best bits as a quickle google search would tell you, i only did it for fun. 
> 
> I dont know if to turn the whole novel, or just leave it where it is.

Danny, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Dan-ny, the tip of my tongue meeting the syllables with a splash of my tongue, Daan-nny, melting like a sugar cube.  
He was Bear in the mornings, standing 5 feet 3 with bleary eyes and his teddy. He was Daniel on the dotted line. He was Howell at school for the teachers, and Dan for his friends. But in my arms he was always Danny.  
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, i’m not trying to excuse myself. I’m just trying to tell you how light, and how love can ruin you. I have nothing left to lose, except my damned soul.  
This is the story of how i meet him, and i’m a monster, yes, but this is also the story of how i fell in love with him.

\---

My name is Philip Lester and I was born in Rawtenstall, England in 1910. My father was a diplomat, i won’t tarnish his memory mentioning his name here, but we had money. Mi mother died young. Could perhaps had been her premature death the cause of my affliction? I would not presume so, because i don’t have that answer. What i know is that her memory lived in the house in the shape of diaphanous dresses caged behind bars like caged birds and her perfume, persistent around her now mostly locked bedroom, and probably stole by some maid later.

Aside from that, I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright would of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. But I never liked girls, not in the way i was supposed to. Before my thirteenth birthday all the sexual encounters i had was a brief naked maid when i opened a door by mistake in my father’s bedroom, which was promptly closed, my cheeks burning like apples in the fall, but only for embarrassment for i did not think back about it until much later, realizing my complete disinterest for the female anatomy.

Later,in his delightful debonair manner, my father gave me all the information he thought I needed about sex; this was just before sending me, in the autumn of 1923, to a boys lycée in Paris, like all well-off british families did.

Parisians were different. Paris of course, was no London too, but the people was certainly quite odd, not in a bad way. I found myself surrounded by black eyed boys, peering at me with lashes that looked longer than girls ones, asking me questions in that melodic sway of french unaware of my personal space. Blonde boys with green eyes, tanned boys with legs that didn’t covered up in the heat of the summer, boys, so many boys as i hadn’t seen before in my life, being an only child.

I remember Marceau’s features far less distinctly today than I did a few years ago, before I knew Danny. There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Marceau in such general terms as: “honey-colored skin,” “thin arms,” “dark bobbed hair,” “long lashes,” “big bright mouth”); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark inner side of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colors (and this is how I see Danny). Let me therefore primly limit myself, in describing Marceau, to saying that he was a lovely child, two months older than myself.  
My first encounter with Marceau was in the dorms, as all boys slept in the same place going by last names, so you could find yourself next to a boy three years older or from your same class. We later found out we were in the same class but that fateful night as i found myself unpacking my bag, a giggling spot went past running to my side. He threw himself on the bed, all long hair and shiny eyes and rosy cheeks and lips, the picture of a Caravaggio’s mirage and all at once i was madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with him; hopelessly, I should add, because as two boys and some the strict and oppressive rules dictated by society over us i was unable to do so much as to only assimilate his beauty, infatuated by him and learning the tricks of hiding so.

There was only one time, as through darkness i felt him slipping with me from my left side, where his bed was. My shivering inquiries about his motives went silenced as he kissed the corner of my parted lips and the hot lobe of my ear. “Everyone does it all the time” he whispered as he pressed himself against me, making me feel him hot and insistent. Slender brown fingers sleepwalked nearer and nearer as my breath hitched. The darkness granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other’s salty lips and for my hand to make a cautious journey to his back, pressing him against me more as we clumsily rutted against each other to completion soon enough.

By morning our experience had seemingly faded from his memory as i forced myself to do the same. It did not happened again, frustration driving me to ask for a second time that was not granted. We went home for the winter, and returning i found out he had died of typhus in Corfu.

\---  
I leaf again and again through these miserable memories, and keep asking myself, was it then, in the glitter of that remote summer, that the rift in my life began; or was my excessive desire for that child only the first evidence of an inherent singularity? When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past.

I am convinced, however, that in a certain magic and fateful way Danny began with Marceau

I also know that the shock of his death consolidated the frustration of that nightmare summer, made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance throughout the cold years of my youth.

In my sanitary relations with women I was practical, ironical and brisk. While a college student, in London and Paris, paid ladies sufficed me. My studies were meticulous and intense, although not particularly fruitful. At first, I planned to take a degree in psychiatry but I switched to English literature, where so many frustrated poets end as pipe-smoking teachers in tweeds. Paris suited me. I discussed Soviet movies with expatriates. I sat with uranists in the Deux Magots. I published tortuous essays in obscure journals. I composed pastiches.

A paper of mine entitled “The Proustian theme in a letter from Keats to Benjamin Bailey” was chuckled over by the six or seven scholars who read it. I launched upon an “Histoire abrégée de la poésie anglaise” for a prominent publishing firm, and then started to compile that manual of French literature for English-speaking students (with comparisons drawn from English writers) which was to occupy me throughout the forties — and the last volume of which was almost ready for press by the time of my arrest

As i said, through my early adult life the idea of a relationship with a woman was all in all, rejected by the core of my being, with myself not actually wanting to dwell in the distaste of which such notion shook me to my foundations.

Now i wish to introduce the following idea: Between the age limits of 13 and 18, there occur some unripe young boys, prime in the flesh who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as “nymphets”. 

These nymphets, are rare, uncommon between his peers who would never pick them apart, only being spotted by the trained eye. Not everyone of the boy-children between these ages is a nymphet. Luckily, as otherwise, we who are in the know, we lone voyagers, we nympholepts, would have long gone insane. The fey grace, the elusive, shifty, soul-shattering, insidious charm that separates the nymphet from such coevals of his are located in the intangible: the outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate.  
Overtly, I had so-called normal relationships with a number of terrestrial women; inly, I was consumed by a hell furnace of localized lust for every passing nymphet whom as a law-abiding poltroon I never dared approach. 

My world was split. I was aware of not this third gender, which to me didn’t correlate to mine or to the female one, one apart, a frozen moment in time where boys were still smooth and fragile, chaste and untainted, still soft and lovely. In my twenties and early thirties, I did not understand my throes quite so clearly. While my body knew what it craved for, my mind rejected my body’s every plea. One moment I was ashamed and frightened, another recklessly optimistic. Taboos strangulated me. Psychoanalysts wooed me with pseudoliberations of pseudolibidoes.

One day I remember walking along the street on a gray spring afternoon sanz the Madeleine. I was walking with a distracted air around me when someone walking in the opposite direction almost crashed against me. It was a young man, not as young as to be a nymphet but there were traces of the nymphic echo, just enough to call my attention to his slender figure and still underdeveloped face. He was eighteen or so he said, when i asked him for his age recognizing in me a potential customer suited for his fitted clothes and kohled eyes. I had never been with a man of the street before, restricting myself to the women who for all means looked sometimes more alike to my dream boys that some wasted male specimens that also offered their services in secluded city spots.

But examining his face i realized he still kept some trace of innocence, something in the round forehead and chewed lips that made me think that perhaps, we might have crossed paths before, like one of the boys that went out of school and passed me by. That settled the matter and i found myself following him upstairs.

Among all the lovers i had had upon that moment i can certainly affirm that Jacques, as he said as he shredded his clothes with practiced ease, was the only one that gave me a pang of pleasure. I let myself go with him more completely that i had with any young lady before me, and i knew why.  
My brief acquaintance with Jacques led me to a train of thought that i had been putting in hold for all those years. Soon after, my actions followed my desires, in a way that may seem pretty obvious to the reader who knows the ropes. One after another, i went to bed with other men, but they weren’t what i was looking for. As i had expected, none of them had the nymphet quality, too much versed in the ways of the body to pretend to be innocent, too jaded, too mature, too big. 

My thoughts kept going back to my nymphets, but i had to be careful, for one discovered look could have easily landed me in jailed. Not too soon after my first encounter with men, for my own safety, I decided to marry. It occurred to me that regular hours, home-cooked meals, all the conventions of marriage, the prophylactic routine of its bedroom activities and, who knows, the eventual flowering of certain moral values, of certain spiritual substitutes, might help me, if not to purge myself of my degrading and dangerous desires, at least to keep them under pacific control.

After careful deliberation i chose wife in the daughter of a polish doctor. We played chess often, and she would look at us peering at me behind half closed doors, a titillating invitation in her lips. Let me say this, i am, for no means, a bad looking man. Quite the contrary if i may say so, as it had been proved to me that i can get any adult female with a snap of my fingers, in a way that it had intensified probably even more my indifference towards them. The compliments are always directed me to my smile, broad shoulders, blue eyes or my high stature, which the later i do not know exactly how to respond well too, as all of it is more an observation than a compliment for me.

Although i had considered only the warm meals and some on and off company out of that arrangement, what really attracted me to Janice was the imitation she gave of a little boy. She gave it not because she had divined something about me; it was just her style — and I fell for it. She wasn’t ladylike, she was a bit bold, naive but reckless, with small hips and short hair enough to make the fantasy complete as i took her from behind.

But the illusion grew old and not complete, with her too-high pitched moans and complaints about the position, insisting in facing me and ruining the dream with her small but still present breasts, her shaved skin, charmless little eyes staring at me in a strange fixated way as she laid passive on her back just letting me have her.

This state of affairs lasted from the 35 to 39.. In the summer of 939 my uncle from America died bequeathing me an annual income of a few thousand dollars on condition I came to live in the States and showed some interest in his business. This prospect was most welcome to me. I felt my life needed a shake-up.. In the summer of 939 mon oncle d’Amérique died bequeathing me an annual income of a few thousand dollars on condition I came to live in the States and showed some interest in his business. This prospect was most welcome to me. I felt my life needed a shake-up. 

Divorce proceedings delayed my voyage, and the gloom of yet another World War had settled upon the globe when, after a winter of ennui and pneumonia in Portugal, I at last reached the States. In New York I eagerly accepted the soft job fate offered me: it consisted mainly of thinking up and editing perfume ads. I welcomed its desultory character and pseudoliterary aspects, attending to it whenever I had nothing better to do.  
The single lifestyle didn’t suited me at all after all this time, as i wandered around the streets of the city trying to catch glimpses of the nymphets and mostly getting assaulted by heat waves, noisy music and sharp smells that were too much for my head, as my psychic troubles started acting up and i ended up having a break down not soon after, getting doctor’s recommendation for a healthy outdoor life in the country.

One of my former employees, the scion of a distinguished family, suggested I spend a few months in the residence of his cousin. I exchanged letters with said person, according a meeting soon after, but to my surprise, upon my arrival i was received with the news that his house had just burned down. To my dismay the man went to my last minute paid hotel, and explained that his family, he said, had fled to a farm he owned, and had taken the car, but a friend of his wife’s, a grand person, Mrs. Howell of 342 Lawn Street, who lived just across their house could have me.

I was angry, disappointed and bored, but being a polite European, could not refuse to be sent off to Lawn Street in a rent car. En route, I swore to myself I would not dream of staying there under any circumstance but would fly that very day to the Bermudas or the Bahamas or the Blazes, already imagining the sweet life i could have in the beach, technicolor beaches with turquoise water and young boys frolicking in the shallow waters.

As we swerved in the street the Howell house came to my view, looking dingy and grey, the kind of place you know that doesn’t have a good shower let alone a decent bathtub.  
I tipped the chauffeur and hoped he would immediately drive away so that I might double back unnoticed to my hotel and bag; but the man merely crossed to the other side of the street where an old lady was calling to him from her porch. What could I do? I pressed the bell button.

“Are you monsieur Lester?” inquired a woman staring at me. The poor lady was in her middle thirties, she had a shiny forehead, plucked eyebrows and quite simple but not unattractive features of a type that may be defined as a weak solution of Marlene Dietrich. Patting her bronze-brown bun, she led me into the parlor and we talked for a minute about the McCoo fire and the privilege of living in the area.

I didn’t heard her chatter a lot, only nodding and trying to answer correctly to her timed answers looking at her in the eyes. She was all over a boring woman, they type that could talk for hours in the saloon about the most absurd banalities on celebrities and shades of curtains. There was no question of my settling there. I could not be happy in that type of household with bedraggled magazines on every chair and a kind of horrible hybridization between the comedy of so-called “functional modern furniture” and the tragedy of decrepit rockers and rickety lamp tables with dead lamps.

I was led upstairs, and to the left — into “my” room. I inspected it through the mist of my utter rejection of it. Old-world politeness, however, obliged me to go on with the ordeal. 

“I see you are not too favorably impressed,” said the lady letting her hand rest for a moment upon my sleeve: she combined a cool forwardness — the overflow of what I think is called “poise” — with a shyness and sadness that caused her detached way of selecting her words to seem as unnatural as the intonation of a professor of “speech.” “This is not a neat household, I confess,” the doomed ear continued, “but I assure you [she looked at my lips], you will be very comfortable, very comfortable, indeed. Let me show you the garden” (the last more brightly, with a kind of winsome toss of the voice).

I walked behind her, surreptitiously taking out my clock to check the time for the next train, when beyond, a sudden burst of greenery, and then, without the least warning, a blue sea-wave swelled under my heart and, from a mat in a pool of sun, half-naked, kneeling, turning about on her knees, there was my love peering at me over dark glasses.

For a moment, time was frozen as i stared at the long legs, the invisible hair, going up to a tiny blue short with the most puerile belt up to the lovely indrawn abdomen where my southbound mouth would have briefly paused and the dot of dusky cinnamon nipples, the soft curve of collarbones where i could pour the most exquisite liquor and not a single drop would have to fall and the face, i couldn’t believe my eyes to the most gorgeous chocolate doey eyes glancing at me over those glasses, an innocence directly contrasting with a lushy lascivious mouth wrapping around a lollipop stretching his lips around it’s girth.

I find it most difficult to express with adequate force that flash, that shiver, that impact of passionate desire. All I Know is that while the Howell woman and I went down the steps into the breathless garden, my knees were like reflections of knees in rippling water, and my lips were like sand, and —  
“That was my Dan” she said, “and these are my lilies.”  
“Yes,” I said, “yes. They are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.”


End file.
